


My Stucky Valentine (2017)

by lecroixss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, D/s, Dom/sub, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, NSFW, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safewords, Subspace, Top Bucky Barnes, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecroixss/pseuds/lecroixss
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like-- Steve and Bucky on Valentine's Day. It's angst (D:) with a happy ending (:D)!Please be sure to read the tags! <3





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you read the tags at the beginning. This has almost no plot, and is very BDSM-heavy (although the BDSM itself is not actually that hard). Also, please make note of the "magical healing cock." I love that phrase so much, and now I get to use it. XD
> 
> Other than that, enjoy! <3 And Happy Valentine's Day! <3

Bright red petals strewn on the floor. The gentle scent of champagne and fresh-cut fruit. The sharp nip of fresh night air.

Bucky’s breath hitches as he leans back into the chair. It’s a large thing, padded like one in a doctor’s office and half-reclining. It’s as close to the one he remembers as they could get without exactly replicating it. Tony hadn’t asked, and neither he nor Steve had volunteered any information, but the whole thing was made to disassemble as easily as it was put together.

“Are you sure?” Steve strokes a hand through Bucky’s hair, looking just as apprehensive as the brunet. They’re both stripped down to just their pants—Steve had insisted that if Bucky was going to leave himself that vulnerable, then he’d join him.

“I can’t be scared forever, Stevie.” His breath is already ragged and adrenaline spikes through his veins. He’s so glad they only had a couple sips of champagne before this. Anything else might have come back up right about now.

“This just seems… extreme.”

“In case you didn’t notice, everything happening to me lately is pretty extreme.” Bucky summons up a dry smile, but Steve looks grave. “It’s what I want. I’ll… I’ll be fine.” He can’t even say it without hiccupping over the words.

Steve takes him seriously, though. They’ve certainly talked it over long enough, and even though he’s terrified, there’s no one Bucky trusts more than Steve to help him get over this. He’s tired of suddenly panicking when he tries to sit in recliners, or fucking rocking chairs if they’re big enough. Even armchairs aren’t safe from the sudden fear that courses through him when he remembers The Chair. Entire lifetimes wiped away by something so deceptively innocent-looking, and now Bucky prefers to stand or sit on floors rather than tempt fate. He knows he should let the therapy catch up to him, but with so many issues at hand, the whole ‘fear of chairs’ thing has fallen by the wayside and it’s been getting worse. Eventually, one of his army of therapists had inadvertently given him an idea: Lower resistance. Face your fear. He’s pretty sure this isn’t what she meant, but here he is anyway.

Steve is gentle as he helps Bucky into position. That’s already a huge difference—they were never gentle, and they never helped. He was expected to be obedient and go willingly. Even when he hesitated, he ultimately gave in to their hard stares and his programming.

Steve tries to get away with tying the silky scarves loosely around Bucky’s wrists, but the brunet shakes his head. “Tighter. It won’t work if it’s not tighter.”

The blond purses his lips but does as asked, mutinously tying the ends into bows to sit atop Bucky’s wrists. It’s completely ridiculous—absurd. Bucky has to choke back a hysterical laugh.

“I still don’t like this,” Steve says, frowning unhappily as he contemplates the last two scarves in his hands. “And on Valentine’s, really?”

“It’s a day when people celebrate a guy who died, probably gruesomely, by giving each other stuff the color of blood. Seems appropriate to me.”

“The same legend says he married people in secret and cured a blind girl,” Steve reminds him.

“Even better. You’re my lover and if anyone was ever blind, it’s me.” He averts his eyes and pretends not to see Steve’s fill with tears. The other man leans down and kisses him sweetly.

“All right. Safe word?”

“Shield.”

“I’ll be listening for it.”

“I know.” Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and opens his mouth for the gag. Steve ties it as loosely as he thinks he can get away with, and this time Bucky doesn’t correct him. It’s light—a single strip of fabric—and thin enough to talk around if he needs. If that fails, three taps of his left hand will stop his lover just the same. Despite the fact that it’s a flimsy bit of cloth, Bucky can almost taste hard rubber and metal on his tongue; feel it between his teeth. He takes one last look at Steve’s bright blue eyes and nods.

The last of the scarves is tied gently around his head, blocking out the meager light. His brain goes fuzzy with panic and he wishes his body would let him submit to sedatives without them reaching dangerous levels. But he feels one of Steve’s hands slip under his, and Steve’s lips pressing over every inch of his face, and tries to breathe through the fear.

The blond smells as wonderful as ever: clean and sweetly masculine, all cut-maple and autumn rain and those spicy notes that are pure Steven Grant Rogers. Bucky struggles to take it all in, to push away the fog and replace it all with _Steve_. Smell is the strongest sense linking memory; he needs to replace the tang of metal and musty stone with the homey scent of his best friend and lover. Surely his memories of them growing up are stronger than those flashes of cold strangers and pain. Steve’s scent has somehow remained the same, even after all this time. When they were younger, it had a bit of that baby-powder lightness to it, turning deep when they hit eighteen. Bucky could always tell Steve was getting ill because that mellow sense of rain would be overlaid with biting ozone, like lightning. He always longed for clear skies; lived for Steve’s presence to come back as strong as ever.

Even after the serum, he smelled the same. It’s one of the few ways Bucky knew it had truly been Steve when he was rescued in Azzano. He doesn’t think anyone could replicate that scent, even if they tried. Sure, Steve’s physical change had been hard to understand, to get used to. But underneath it all, he was ultimately still Bucky’s Stevie, and that’s what mattered. And now, seventy years later, in a place where everything and nothing is the same all at once, Steve is his one constant; his north star. Not a single note is out of place in the beautiful scent of him; no sickness or gunpowder to obscure him.

Breathe.

He thinks he can do this, maybe. He’s still struggling, but he thinks he can wrestle the beast inside him into control. Steve palms his naked shoulders, his waist; travels down his arms and back again, rubbing at the gooseflesh there. Not once does the blond stop kissing him, murmuring words that get lost in the roar of blood rushing through Bucky’s ears. The sounds are loving, though, and something of the tone filters through to Bucky’s core, helping keep the fear at bay.

“—cky. Buck, can you check in with me?”

Bucky realizes that this can’t be the first time Steve has asked, judging by his anxious tone. Nimble fingers start to tug at the gag, but Bucky shakes his head. A simple gesture: left, then right, with deliberate slowness. Instead of untying it, Steve loosens the fabric until Bucky can speak clearly.

“Green. I’m fine.” His voice is thin and reedy, but he doesn’t think he’s getting worse, so that’s progress.

“Well I’m not,” Steve replies. Now that he’s looking for it, he can feel the blond trembling with fear of his own. “Can I take off the blindfold? Or the gag?”

Bucky thinks it over. “The blindfold,” he decides. He waits while Steve undoes the bow behind his head and removes the offending fabric. Blinking into the dim light, Steve’s face swims into view. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying. Bucky feels a pang that has nothing to do with fear echo through his heart. He didn’t think about what this might do to Steve. Steve, whose empathy is second only to his stubbornness. Steve, who cried harder over Bucky’s wounds than his own when they were children; who once went hungry because he’d given away his food to the wharf rats by the Yard; who tried to sneak extra blankets onto _Bucky’s_ bed despite his own shivering on those cold New York nights.

“It’s all right, beautiful,” he murmurs. Steve breathes deep through his nose before sealing his lips over Bucky’s, whimpering into the kiss and taking shelter in the other man’s mouth. Bucky kisses back. His arms jerk at their ties and he has a quick flash of anxiety when he can’t raise them right away. Another whimper from the blond has him redirecting his focus to the space between them instead, and he coaxes Steve into leaning more weight on him. For Steve, he can be strong enough to lift the world.

“Doing better?” Bucky uses his nose to nudge at Steve’s jaw, urging him to look at Bucky properly. The blond blinks a few times, lashes wet and clumped with moisture, though no tears fall.

“Yeah. You?”

“Green.” He plants a faint kiss on Steve’s nose—the only part of the other man he can reach. “If you don’t mind?” He tries to brush his cheek against the gag and fails, but Steve gets the idea and lifts the fabric to re-settle it between Bucky’s teeth. Familiar fear swirls through the brunet and he can’t help the way his heart pounds furiously, but he keeps his gaze locked on Steve’s like a lifeline.

“You’re so strong,” Steve murmurs. He doesn’t look away yet, choosing instead to continue mapping Bucky’s naked body with his hands. His fingers dance across the mass of scars covering Bucky’s left, soft and reverent, and it’s such a contrast to the ache he’s become accustomed to that Bucky could cry from it. 

The pain there used to be a constant in his life. He’d become so used to it that he only noticed after it was gone, when Stark had gotten tired of looking ‘at that outdated, clunky piece of shit’ and had completely redesigned it. He’d had to call in a team of medical specialists and two more MIT grads, but they’d gotten it completely replaced and re-wired. The result was something much lighter with better tactile faculties and an odd, blunt sensation that took Bucky four days to realize was the lack of low-grade pain pulsing on his left. Bruce had given him a commiserate look when he’d realized it, and Bucky suspects they might be the only two on the team who know what it’s like to feel the presence of a monster grafted onto their bodies. Since then, he’s spent more time with Bruce, usually on the floor somewhere and doing separate tasks together.

“Thank you for being here for me,” Steve whispers into his shoulder, finally breaking eye contact. Bucky’s jaw tightens for a moment, pulling the gag tighter before he remembers that he can talk if he wants to. He doesn’t need to swallow his words or hide them in his own head. He doesn’t need to wait for white-hot agony to sweep away his thoughts.

“With you.” The words are muffled but there, and there’s no flash of heat burning through his skull to accompany them. Relief pours through him. It’s like replacing his arm all over again, that feeling of numbness where he expects pain, like he’s waiting for something that isn’t there to catch up to him. He’s restless with waiting for a blow that might never come.

Steve praises and admires him openly, raining kisses on his eyelids, running his lips across Bucky’s hair, mouthing the lines of his collar and shoulders.

_So brave._

_I love you, Bucky._

_Спасибо, моя любовь._

_I’m so sorry._

_You’re perfect._

_Je t'aime._

The words tumble hard and fast from Steve’s mouth and to Bucky’s ears. For once, the brunet allows himself to soak in the praise. He’s not sure if he deserves or even believes half of it, but Steve’s love gives him hope. 

At one point, Steve nuzzles his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, straddling him on the chair and curling in towards the brunet’s chest. Bucky feels a surge of protectiveness and presses his cheek to the crown of Steve’s head and realizes, dimly, that this is something that was done _to_ him. He knew that logically, but his emotions are so closely tied to years of conditioning that objectivity has been completely lost. No amount of talking from any psychologist or teammate could make him truly believe it, but here, with Steve in his lap stifling the broken sound of unshed tears, he can see what Hydra has done to him. To _them_. Even if he no longer believes he deserves better, he _knows_ Steve does, and watching the blond try so hard to erase that only throws the cruelty of his former masters into high relief.

The tide turns sometime later, when Steve’s hands are wormed behind his back, lips sucking gently at his skin. Bucky realizes with a start that he’s relaxed; has been for a while now. He can’t trace when he stopped feeling the buzz of anxiety and fear, or when he started floating in that peaceful space inside his head. He carefully rouses his mind, cataloging every feeling, testing to see whether or not he’ll have an attack. One doesn’t seem to be imminent and it’s odd to not be looking over his metaphorical shoulder for one, but he decides that for tonight, at least, he’ll take the victory for what it is.

“Steve.” His voice is still muffled, but Steve responds immediately, freezing for a moment before working the gag off. When the blond goes to work the restraints off Bucky’s wrists, he shakes his head. “Steve,” he repeats, louder this time. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Look at me, doll.”

Steve’s eyes dart over his face, inspecting him for any signs of falsehood. Finding none, he relaxes slightly.

“I just wanted to gag off so’s I could kiss you. Punk,” he adds fondly. Steve quirks the beginning of a reluctant smile and leans in to claim his kiss, following as Bucky deepens it. The brunet can feel something warm uncurl deep inside him, coaxed by Steve’s soothing presence. Bucky savors the taste of him and draws back to lure Steve into draping across more of his body, chasing his lips. 

“You’re a jerk,” Steve mutters. He exposes the long line of his neck to Bucky’s questing teeth, humming when he feels the brunet graze against the tendons there. Something about watching Steve expose the most vulnerable parts of himself begins to catch Bucky’s interest. He decides to test a little theory.

“Closer,” he grunts. He flexes his hands slightly on the armrests, trying not to draw attention to them too much. Steve responds easily, plastering himself against Bucky’s front, naturally sliding up his lap, muscular legs falling open to better straddle the seated brunet. He laps at the right side of Steve’s neck, as low as he can easily dip his head. “More,” he orders.

Steve slides up even higher, tilting his head and baring the crook of his neck now, offering the thick muscle of his shoulder in response to Bucky’s demands. The brunet feels a little heady with power. While he’s here, bound and unable to direct their movement himself, Steve will do the work for both of them. While being in a chair isn’t the most conducive position to the activities he now has in mind, he’s starting to realize that perhaps he doesn’t mind being restrained after all.

He bites into the meat of Steve’s shoulder, pinching the flesh firmly in his teeth and relishing the thin whine that comes from above him. He grins around his mouthful, lapping over tender skin before sucking on it hard enough to pull blood to the surface, assuring a purple mark that will last until morning. He nibbles across it and chooses a new place to lay claim over. He can hear his own breath rumble in a growl deep in his throat. Steve lowers his head to expose the nape of his neck to Bucky’s questing teeth, his own warm breath shivering across Bucky’s shoulder. Steve is practically shoving them both into the hard planes of the chair, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Bucky gives his face another nudge. “Other side.”

Steve’s gaze drags over Bucky’s face, eyes glassy and unfocused, and a moan tumbles from his lips as he obeys. Bucky pulls his legs up, forcing Steve’s even wider until the blond settles around him properly, knees folded to straddle Bucky as best he can. The motion rubs their erections together and Bucky huffs in surprise to find himself already hard. 

Bucky buys himself time to contemplate this new development by ravishing the other side of Steve’s neck with kisses. Blond hair tickles his face as he nibbles his way up to Steve’s ear, and the blond’s breath fogs the metal of Bucky’s left arm. Steve lets out another whining, broken noise, and Bucky knows what he wants. He sinks his teeth in particularly hard just to hear another moan before admiring the rough circular patch now impressed on golden skin.

“Wrists.” He doesn’t _mean_ for it to come out so sultry, but it does. Steve doesn’t quite freak out this time, mesmerized by the confidence and authority in Bucky’s voice. He’s slow to respond, blinking at the brunet for a moment before the command clicks into place. He tries to reach back without moving the rest of his body and fails miserably. “Now,” Bucky rumbles. It makes Steve’s already dark eyes widen, and he scrambles to obey.

As soon as he’s free, Bucky practically throws Steve off him and onto his feet. Fighting back is another difference—he never used to fight back. When he came out of the chair he was always compliant, even through the icy dread of the cryo chamber. Now, he wants to laugh he feels so free. Steve looks as drunk as Bucky feels: he sways on his feet and can’t quite focus, eyes flitting over every part of Bucky like he doesn’t know where to start.

“Bed.” It seems that he’s been reduced to one-word sentences. He’s not surprised—with the mix of adrenaline and lust coursing through his veins, and after the emotional roller coaster that was his day, he’s honestly surprised he can talk at all. “Naked.”

Bucky gives Steve a few second’s lead, both to give him time to complete the task and to appreciate the view as the blond disappears into the bedroom. He divests himself of his clothing and strides confidently into the bedroom, his world already narrowing to a single goal: Make Steve _cry_ with pleasure. He’s cried over Bucky once tonight, and the brunet refuses to let it end like that. Tonight is about new beginnings, and he’s decided that before midnight, Steve should be crying for Bucky in an entirely different way.

Steve sits up on the bed, naked and watching Bucky as the brunet stalks in and shoves Steve further up the sheets. The blond moans and goes willingly, already gazing at Bucky with huge, trusting eyes. Bucky plasters himself against Steve’s front until he can feel every inch of his overheated, aching flesh. He frames Steve’s head protectively in his arms, leaning in until their lips are a breath away.

“You have a color, sweetheart?” He has to dodge when Steve tries to kiss him instead.

“Green.” Steve sighs happily into the kiss he gets as a reward.

“How do you want it tonight?” Bucky keeps his lips tantalizingly close, hoping to lure another answer.

Steve can’t stop looking at him, entranced. Finally, Bucky moves one of his hands to tug lightly on Steve’s hair and get his attention.

“You,” is the only response he gets. Looks like Bucky isn’t the only one who can be reduced to monosyllabic answers.

“You took care of me, so now it’s my turn, okay? Okay?” he prompts again when no response is forthcoming. Steve nods jerkily, like he can’t quite remember how.

“All right,” Bucky soothes. Steve gives him a dopey smile and settles more comfortably onto his back. “Want you to do something for me, though.” At Steve’s sweet, inquiring glance, the brunet nuzzles the other man’s neck. “Touch me?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. I just wanna feel you, Stevie. Touch me.”

Steve’s eyes seem to swallow his face as his open, wondering gaze turns its full force on Bucky’s body. Artistic fingers skim over him, tracing the curvature of his muscles and bones. Steve maps him out in feather-light touches that radiate electricity under Bucky’s skin, filling him with a gentle, heady buzz. Even his left arm’s pressure sensors hum faintly. He’s so sure he can feel the delicate caresses there, conducted through metal instead of flesh, despite _knowing_ that no sense other than proximity can actually be conveyed though the cybernetic. That hardly matters to his mind right now, and Steve either fails to notice or doesn’t care about the difference. He just… touches, exactly as his lover requested.

“God, Stevie, I love you.” Bucky drags his tongue across the bounty of Steve’s skin, lapping up the salt of sweat and tears, letting the taste mingle on his tongue. “Love you so much.” He works his way down as Steve opens his body up to Bucky’s questing mouth and fingers. There is no part of Steve Rogers that James Barnes is not allowed, both literally and figuratively. He can’t remember how long he’s known this to be true, but certainly long enough that realizing he’d forgotten it at all feels like another betrayal to both of them.

Every inch he covers, every trembling breath he takes, every sweep of Steve’s hands across Bucky’s scarred, ruined body sends bittersweet memories swirling through Bucky’s mind; things Hydra thought they could take away from the two of them, but that in the end evil failed to destroy:

Steve, bruised and bloody and proud, pretending to feel chastised by Bucky’s harsh words but with a gleam of pride in his eye. Being chewed out in turn, this time by a frantic Steve— _“You can’t just run in like that! What would I do if you got hurt because of me?!”_ —and knowing he would do it all over again.

A dingy apartment with threadbare rugs and dented pots, smelling like wet and burned cooking and _home_.

The warm glow of certainty that _this is it_ , Bucky knows where he belongs and it’s holding this stupid blond through thick and thin. It’s nursing him when he’s sick, it’s working long and hard hours to afford food and rent and medication, it’s waking up to bright blue eyes and shy smiles and coming home to charcoal-smudged hands clasped around his own, and the way he rumbles “Welcome home, jerk” when what he really means is “I missed you and I love you,” and when Bucky answers “Hi to you too, punk,” and means, “I love you too.”

Bucky works his way to Steve’s dripping cock, humming happily when Steve doesn’t stop twisting his fingers through Bucky’s long brown hair—the contact is exactly what he wanted. He covers every inch of the blond’s body with purpling marks and sharp bites, pinching skin between his teeth just to feel the jolt Steve’s body makes when the pain flares just this side of uncomfortable. And since Steve is obeying orders so well…

“Don’t want you to come until I say,” he husks. He flicks his tongue across Steve’s slit so the blond will know what he’s getting into. A high whine sounds above him. “Words, sweetheart. Use words.”

There’s a long moment while Steve struggles to line up what he wants to say. Bucky inches up a little higher but keeps his hands on Steve’s body, grounding him. Blue eyes flick to him and Steve licks his lips, trying to form words for a moment before starting again.

“Yes. I will. Won’t.” He’s starting to look vexed at his inadequate use of language, so Bucky gives him a gentle nudge.

“Color?”

“Green.” Steve relaxes as soon as the word leaves his lips, happy that he’s successfully conveyed his message. Bucky smiles indulgently and drags one of Steve’s hands to his mouth so he can nibble on the sensitive pads of the blond’s fingers. A couple sharp nips and he lets go of Steve’s hand, though the blond tries to chase him down so he can fulfill Bucky’s demand for touch. He has to settle for gripping Bucky’s hair as the brunet expertly dodges to resume his place between Steve’s legs.

“Don’t come,” he warns. He doesn’t wait for Steve’s nod before swallowing his lover down, straight to the hilt in one go.

Steve moans and his hands scrabble at the sheets. His body tenses and trembles with the effort of not fucking into Bucky’s mouth, but the brunet has him pinned by the hips in any case. He pinches Steve’s hip and pulls up with an obscene sound, sucking firmly as he works his way up the other man’s shaft. Steve’s ability to form words has deserted him once more, and an indistinct stream of muttered syllables reaches Bucky’s ears. He switches to kissing and licking his way up and down Steve’s cock, his left hand keeping him firmly in place while his right gauges red marks into unblemished skin. Steve squirms restlessly but doesn’t fight him, instead flexing his hand where it’s tangled in Bucky’s hair, each little tug in time with Bucky’s long, languid licks.

Just as Steve starts to relax into it, Bucky takes him back in again, left hand flat on his stomach to push against the bow of Steve’s back. He can feel the muscles in Steve’s thighs strain as his toes curl and a long, needy moan punches its way out of Steve’s lungs. Bucky ups his pace, using mouth and hands to inch Steve closer and closer to the edge. 

When his breathing shifts and punctuates his moans like little exclamations ( _“Mmh! Ah! Bu—!”_ ) Bucky opens up his throat and takes Steve as deep as he can and _hums_. Steve keens high in the back of his throat before cutting off abruptly, muffling the noise into a sheet he clumsily shoves into his own mouth. His jaw clenches and his eyes go wide, and Bucky circles his throbbing member to exert carefully calculated pressure. He freezes in place until the pulsing in his throat has died down and Steve’s breath leaves his lungs all at once… and then he does it all over again; wet, frankly pornographic noises as he sucks Steve off before switching to his hands, using his spit and Steve’s precum to achieve a slick glide against his palm. This time he stops as soon as he can feel Steve even remotely close to an orgasm, relishing the way plush pink lips fall open in breathy pants and the way Steve’s fingers skitter over Bucky’s wrists, following orders even now. He’s managed to string together syllables again, and Bucky listens closely as he edges Steve one more time.

 _“Touch,”_ the blond mutters to himself deliriously. _“Touch me. To—uch me. Touchme_ touchme _touchme_.”

Bucky’s command. The brunet smiles and laps at the sweat misting Steve’s collar, making the blond whine and tilt his head back in a silent plea for more. Bucky ghosts his lips over the blond’s neck but ultimately bypasses the expanse of skin, making Steve whine and lick hungrily across Bucky’s chest. It’s a little bit of a stretch, but Bucky manages to slide their bedside table drawer open and snag the lube with the tips of his fingers. He pours a generous amount into his right hand and dives back down to seal his lips against Steve’s, using a knee to nudge the other man’s leg up, giving himself better access. Steve is well beyond pleasantries by now, and his body eagerly welcomes two of Bucky’s fingers. He crooks them as he hurries through prepping his lover, grazing against Steve’s prostate without any real pressure, trying to avoid making him come too soon. Even so, Bucky has to pause when he’s three fingers in while Steve trembles and arcs under him, cock leaking obscenely against his stomach. Bucky wants to taste him so _badly_ , but Steve’s gaze is already unfocused and his voice has died out, lips moving soundlessly. Bucky fully intends to fulfill his promise to take care of the blond, but he aches to be inside him first.

Hastily, Bucky slicks up his cock and lines himself up, breathing heavily into the air between them.

“So good for me, Stevie.” He uses his nose to nudge sweat-damp strands away from Steve’s face. “So good. Thank you, sweetheart.” As soon as Steve locks gazes with him, he pushes in, biting his lip against the onslaught of pleasure pounding through his veins and threatening to swamp him. Beneath him, Steve moans faintly at the sensation of slowly being filled.

When he’s buried as far as he can be inside the blond, Bucky uses his relatively clean left hand to grab Steve’s leg and position it around his waist. The other man moves his other leg automatically, locking his ankles together behind Bucky’s back to moor him there. Satisfied, the brunet experimentally rocks out and back in.

It’s pure heaven.

He pumps his hips again, more strongly this time, and Steve sucks in a deep, shuddering breath that he lets out as a high whine when Bucky pulls him even closer to bite and suck at his neck. He’s just grateful—so damn _grateful_ —that he noticed seventy pounds of scrap and spitfire ninety years ago in the schoolyard. Now that he knows Steve, he’s even more grateful that the young blond had even allowed him to help—grateful that they lived and fought side by side for years; just the two of them ‘til the end of the line.

Because what would he do without Steve’s love? That love that lives in flashing blue eyes and bashful smiles; in flying fists in back-alley fights and stubborn pride that refuses to let him back down. It shines in every tiny thing Steve does, from the way he still patches every small rip in Bucky’s shirts to how he refuses to erase even a single line when sketching the brunet ( _“I like it better this way, Buck. You just always seem more_ real _.”_ ). It makes Bucky want to do better—to _be_ better—because Steve has always made Bucky the best version of himself and Bucky’s love, gentle and steady, has always shone so much more brightly bathed in the sunlight that is Steve Rogers. With that kind of strength, Bucky can face anything—even himself.

He realizes that he’s been babbling nonsense for a while now; sweet little nothings in time with each stroke, muttered into Steve’s increasingly love-bitten skin. The liberal marks are stark against fair flesh, and the sight makes Bucky impossibly harder so that he moans and picks up the pace, deliberately angling his hips.

He can feel the moment Steve finally breaks, with Bucky in deep, teeth pinching hard at the lobe of Steve’s ear. The blond utters a small sigh and his eyes go misty and blank; his body’s muscles shift ever so slightly, and Bucky knows his best guy is flying. Tears stream steadily down Steve’s face and he lets out the occasional mewl, but his jaw is slack and he hangs on mostly by instinct. Everything about him is laid bare for Bucky to take, to hold and cherish and protect… so Bucky does. He’ll never do anything less.

Bucky speeds his thrusts until he’s nearly gasping for air, trembling on the fine edge of his own orgasm. By the way Steve tightens around him, and the erratic way he’s breathing, the blond is close too. Bucky grinds himself in as deep as he can and resists the urge to howl with the overwhelming pleasure consuming his mind and body. 

“Ah, God, so good,” he praises thickly. “Come for me, doll. Stevie, _come_.”

Steve is coming before the final plea, Bucky’s long-time pet name alone enough to tip the scales.

As soon as Steve’s muscles tighten, Bucky loses all sense of time as he comes blindingly hard, the delicious fire consuming his body in white-hot waves so intense they numb both mind and flesh in their wake. He’s drowning in pure pleasure, even his scalp tingling where Steve’s fingers are tangled in his hair. He bears down on his lover as he comes, as though with that action alone he can pull them together so close that they will never be separated again.

When he comes back to himself, skin still tingling and body shuddering through aftershocks, he blinks sweat and tears from his eyes and takes a moment to murmur praise into Steve’s skin, taking comfort in nuzzling the blond’s neck. It’s only a moment, though, before he reluctantly pulls away to get hot, damp washcloths to clean them both up, dragging the warm cloth over Steve gently and letting the heat start reviving him. It takes another moment to throw the washcloths in the sink before he pops into the dining room again to retrieve some of the fruit they’d left there. He hesitates, water bottles already in hand, before he takes the bottle of champagne with a shrug. The alcohol no longer affects them, and it’s high in sugar.

He’s glad to see that there are no early signs of a drop in his minute or so of absence and gathers Steve into his arms to get them both under the covers, propped against the headboard. He keeps him warm, combing through drying blond locks with his fingers and murmuring soothing words. Occasionally, he changes his grip to run a hand down Steve’s arms or chest, massaging lightly and feeling for tension. He takes sips directly from the expensive bottle of champagne and carefully runs them between Steve’s lips, cleaning with his tongue anything the blond doesn’t swallow. It takes a few minutes, but Steve eventually starts swallowing properly and shifting around to get more comfortable. Bucky smiles and switches back out to water; now that Steve is there enough to eat fruit, the sugar from the drink won’t be needed.

Steve drinks a third of the water and is on his fourth piece of a strawberry when he finally rouses himself enough to speak.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, Stevie.”

“You okay?”

Bucky wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Who is reassuring who here? “A’ course. How about you, doll? You were so perfect for me.” He presses soft kisses to Steve’s temple; the shell of his ear. “ _You_ feelin’ okay so far?”

“I'm fine. I was good? Really?” Steve turns in Bucky’s arms until he can peer up through long lashes at the brunet.

“Perfect,” Bucky confirms. He captures Steve’s lips in a kiss and makes him take another sip of water. “You’re always so wonderful, Stevie.” He smiles at the little blush that dusts Steve’s cheeks. “’S why you gotta tell me if _you’re_ doin’ okay, yeah? Want to be good for you too.”

“I’m okay,” Steve replies shyly. “I’ll tell you if I’m not.” He obediently takes another strawberry from Bucky’s fingers, but tips his head up with part of the fruit between his lips until Bucky, laughing, bends his head to split the bite with him. Steve grins triumphantly as he swallows.

“Bath?” Bucky asks when both the water and the fruit are gone.

“All kinds of bubbles today, huh?” Steve responds dryly. It’s not a no, so Bucky replaces his embrace with the tight fit of the blanket around Steve’s shoulders before going to fill the tub.

“You’re the one who got the booze,” Bucky calls back. “You coulda got wine.” God bless Stark’s fancy water heaters. He tosses in some bubble bath as Steve inadvertently requested—a present from Natasha, oddly enough. He’d cracked a lot of jokes about her thinking that they smelled, but he has to admit that it’s a luxury they unexpectedly enjoy. The first time they’d shown up at a dinner smelling faintly of lavender and honey, she’d smirked and taken their share of dessert. Bucky let her.

He returns for Steve and, despite the other man’s protests, carries him bridal-style into the bath. Steve tries to hide how he toys with the thick foam around them, but Bucky isn’t fooled in the least; he can feel the disturbance in the water when Steve splashes the surface to wiggle his fingers in the bubbles.

“You think it worked any?” Steve finally asks. “That was real… unorthodox.”

Bucky hums in thought, piling suds on Steve’s hair while the blond scowls and tries to swipe them back off. “Maybe not all the way, but… I’ll have a different kind of problem sitting in chairs, I think.”

Steve looks at him with a mixture of trepidation and resignation.

“’S gonna be hard not to _get_ hard when I’m sittin’, now.” He laughs when Steve splashes him with water. “But seriously, I don’t know if some won’t still set me off, but as long as you’re around I think it’ll be okay. That’s a good start.”

“I’m glad.”

Bucky uses the gently scented water to wash the tear tracks off Steve’s cheeks. “Me too. Hey, JARVIS?” He’s long past looking around when he talks to the AI. Instead, he presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead.

_:Yes, Sergeant Barnes?:_

He finds that he doesn’t mind the title quite so much today. “What time is it?”

_:It is six minutes past midnight, February fifteenth.:_

“Thanks.”

_:My pleasure, Sergeant.:_

Steve is smiling happily at him, and Bucky can’t help but smile back.

Mission accomplished.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Their experiment is NOT psychologically sound. **Sweet Jesus do NOT use BDSM to fix deep psychological scarring, PLEASE.** In case anyone has questions: yes, the implication is that they already have experience with scenes; yes, Steve is usually the sub; and yes, they use champagne in lieu of an energy drink BUT it is because, as super soldiers, the small amount of alcohol in the drink doesn't affect them. To them, it's kind of like drinking grape juice with slightly less sugar. In the name of all things good, please don't copy them in this (unless you are also a super soldier, in which case, hit me up).
> 
> Also, the stuff about Saint Valentine is true (more or less). It's debatable whether it's just one person or an amalgamation of people that make up his legend, but some of the most prominent stories about him feature the things that Steve said. So, Happy Celebration of a Guy Who Was Killed for Marrying Couples and Who Also Healed Blind Girls!
> 
> **Translations**  
> Спасибо, моя любовь : Thank you, my love.  
> Je t'aime : I love you.
> 
> P. S. Comments are as good as chocolate! ;)


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